Not as long as a two-foot-tall granddaughter loves to squeeze its beak and does not groan when Grandpa resurrects what owls say on a rainy day:

"Too wet to woo."

The owl will have a home as long as Grandma Urban Gardener says "1 ... 2 ... 3 ... owl eyes!" when she opens her lids nose-to-nose with the grandchild, the way she once did with the grandchild's father.

This is where I come in, the alleged resident handyman. I tape up the gashes. I blow into the small slippery valve and feel the carcass return to life size in my arms. I use both hands and a lot of facial expression to push in the stopper without letting out too much air.

I take the owl to the post. I tighten its little black girdle. It stands tall again and maybe scary enough to put in the window for Halloween. The UG is positively complimentary.

The next day, the painted feathers seem to have shrunk a bit. The following day, a bit more.

I plunge the owl into the bathtub. It keeps bobbing to the surface, staring up at me like the corpse in that French movie, showing no bubbles to reveal the slow leak that must be there.

I add tape to strengthen the little black girdle.

The third day, our guardian slumps over like a melted watch, a Salvador Dali owl.

Is this sheer poetry or what? Marianne Moore called on poets to provide imaginary gardens with real toads in them. We had a real garden with a deflated owl in it.

I blow up the owl. I squeeze the valve enough, but not too much, to put the stopper in. I retighten the little black girdle. I straighten the post.

Does anyone give a hoot that, unless all varmints and grandchildren stay away, my foreseeable future will be blowing up an owl every three days?